


pinnacle

by starforged



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Blow Jobs, F/M, Fingerfucking, First Time Blow Jobs, Implied Voyeurism, PWP, Resolved Sexual Tension, The Outsider is definitely a virgin, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 09:48:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17363711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starforged/pseuds/starforged
Summary: He says she's the pinnacle of Dunwall's success. She thinks she's the world.





	pinnacle

The cold draft that brushes against Emily’s back is what wakes her up. It seeps into her skin and sinks into her bones. The cold of the Void, a feeling she knows all too well. It’s been a couple of months since Delilah, though. Since the Outsider last came to visit. That’s how it worked, she thought. He chose, and then he let them go to do with his gifts what they willed. 

She turns in her bed and stretches, staring into the dark of her room. If she pulls the covers back over her head, she wonders if there’s a way to fall into sleep again, to slide past the Void and the Outsider and whatever summons this must be. Because there’s no other real explanation for it at this point. He must want something.

A frown tugs at her lips. He must want something. That’s the thought that gets her up. She could ignore him.

She doesn’t want to.

That’s a rather unfortunate feeling, the eagerness inside of her, that bloom in her chest that means - something. A need for adventure, maybe. 

A sigh comes from her left, and her head whips so fast in his direction, that her vision swims for a second. He blends in with the darkness, fading and stretching out, until he snaps back into place. 

That’s different. Usually she’d just - open a door, turn around, and there would be the Void. And she does _feel_ it, pushing down around her. 

He leans back on her bed, watching her with those damnable eyes, face impassive. 

“A little presumptuous of you, don’t you think?” she asks him, leaning away. Not moving, just a shift of her shoulders pulling back, putting space between them. 

“Emily. Always a pleasure.” He says it in a way that she can’t help but think is sarcastic. 

Is the Outsider capable of sarcasm? Has Delilah broken him? Has she?

Now, that’s presumptuous of her, to think any part of their dealings could have changed him in some manner. But she had already thought that, before now, probably since she first met him. He’s frayed, in some way. 

Her brow furrows. “I don’t understand.”

“Normally, I don’t answer house calls.” His brow furrows.

There’s a moment of confusion as she watches him. He blips out, the pressure on the bed easing up. He stands in front of her now, leaning down so he’s eye level. A twitch in the corner of his mouth catches her eye when she slowly turns his head toward him this time. He’s _too close_ , as if the idea of personal space still escapes him. Or maybe he likes that, getting in and making people uncomfortable. 

“House calls?” She snorts. “I wouldn’t dare. There are no shrines here, no prayers for your help.” Her left hand flexes, his mark rippling across her skin. His gaze moves from her face to her hand and back again.

“You want to tell me something, little empress. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here,” he tells her.

But where does that make sense? He doesn’t answer the people who call to him, so even if she had, even if there had been a conscious effort to ask him for _anything_ (and there wouldn’t have been, she was satisfied with their mutually beneficial relationship when it came to taking down her dear old aunt), he would not come. 

“Why would that bring you here anyway?”

The question takes him by surprise. He hadn’t even thought about that, had he? Hadn’t let himself wonder why it was he would even come visit her again just because she willed it in some way?

And she hadn’t.

His head tilts as he watches her, still too close, still leaning down in a way that makes her feel trapped to her spot on the bed. 

She might have, she thinks. The silence that stretches before them is a winding path of broken thoughts and feelings that she had shoved aside. Missing the adventure, the need to still take care of problems in her empire, his voice, the frank openness of his need for help. They were cobblestones that had led to wanting more. 

She closes her eyes for a second. She missed him, the gangly strange thing that he was, the humanity beneath the years of immortality, his interest in people. 

“You interest me.”

A given. Her hand flexes, the left one. 

“Are you sure you’re not the one with something to say to me?” Emily’s mouth quirks up into something of a smirk. She leans forward, closer to him, in his space and the cool air he gives off. 

Does a god breathe? Does he need to? There’s nothing to his chest, no easy rising and falling as there would be with someone breathing. Her gaze flickers to where his heart would be for a moment before she settles back on his face.

His eyebrows have moved. Shifted upwards and bowed in the middle all the same. Surprise. It’s a look of surprise.

“You would not be the first one who has mistaken my interest for something more,” the Outsider tells her. “It gets a little tedious.”

There’s a sting of rejection to his words, something that bites at her that she doesn’t wish was there. “But you’re here.”

There’s something of a tilt to his mouth, the lines long.

“Yes.”

She lets out a growl of frustration. “What do you want from me? What do you need me to do this time? Is there another conspiracy grasping for my throne that I don’t know of? Have you been invaded again?”

And maybe it’s because he’s so close, and maybe it’s because she’s physical when she’s upset. Maybe it’s because he’s here.

But her hands reach for the collar of his coat, and her fingers curl in to the fabric. It surprises her. She expected him to disappear in a swirl of shadow, reappear over her or on the other side of the room. Maybe she thought him to vanish completely and leave her to a restless night.

She’s got him. It’s awkward. She’s still sitting, and he’s still leaning. With her grasp, she pushes him back slightly, and his long legs move where she wants them to as she stands up.

“Emily, didn’t your father ever teach you to keep your hands to yourself?” He wears what could actually be considered a smile now, a light tone to his voice. “No, that’s not really his style.”

“Get out.” She says it like an empress would, firm and powerful. She says it like she means it. 

But she doesn't keep her hands to herself. 

“You have me. What did you intend to do?”

He doesn’t listen to her, but she expected that reaction. She doesn’t expect the question. This madness should end, their strange circling game that makes no sense to either of them. What _does_ she intend to do?

She kisses him. His mouth is cold and firm against her own lips, his body stiff in her hands. He wasn’t expecting this, she can tell. It’s in is body language, and it’s in the way his bottomless eyes widen back at her with more emotion than she’s ever seen from him. It’s an interesting thing to watch, if she’s being honest. So she kisses him again, hard and needy. He lets her. He doesn’t respond.

A frustrated growl rips from her throat as she finally pushes him away, pushes _herself_ away. Stupid. She’s not a girl anymore, led by her hormones only. And he’s an anomaly of a being! A god! She dared to kiss a god. 

He stands there with his shoulders hunched up.

“Nothing?” Because it’s suddenly important to Emily that he feels anything. She doesn’t deal well with rejection; she hasn’t been raised to accept it. 

“You aren’t the first to kiss me,” the Outsider tells her. 

She sits heavily on her bed. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

“You are the first I’ve wanted to kiss me.”

It’s her turn to be slack jawed, staring up at him with wide eyes and a contorted brow. Was there a hidden meaning underneath of his words? Was he making a joke? He isn’t exactly what she would call humorous. 

“Why?”

It’s important. There’s a connection, she knows it. She hates it, but it’s there. She needs to know what it means, follow it down the line until the path disappears from beneath her feet completely. Her hands reach up until her fingers find the contours of his face. He allows himself to be pulled into her touch. 

“You don’t get to have all the answers that you want, little empress.”

It’s a frustrating response, but it still brings a smile to her face. 

“I always get what I want,” she says. 

When she kisses him this time, there’s a soft pressure in return. It’s tentative, and it suddenly strikes her. He might be thousands of years old, and people before her might have kissed him, but he’s never returned the favor. Her hands find their way to his bony waist, pulling him closer to her. How far can she go before he turns to shadow under her touch and leaves her? A cold touch brushes against the back of her neck as his fingertips slide along the skin there, his thumbs pressed into her neck. 

His slight body is difficult to maneuver, even though Emily knows that - god or not - she could snap his frame in half. But he’s not good with taking direction. Why should he be? She’s just not good with being disobeyed in return, and that’s--

That’s part of it, isn’t it? The Outsider is something she shouldn’t have, couldn’t have. She can’t direct him. She can’t make him answer her, worship her. 

His knee presses into her mattress, between her parted thighs barely covered by the sleep shorts she chooses to wear to bed. She tries very hard to ignore that they actually belong to Wyman. 

She’s breathless.

He’s not.

It doesn’t bother her, mouth hot as she finds the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his ear. If she presses herself close enough to him, covers his skin with her mouth, can she warm him up?

“You’re worked up,” he sighs into the crook of her neck before he plants an experimental kiss there. 

She hates the way her head tilts until she can expose her throat to him. “I get something nobody else ever has. I’m the ultimate explorer.”

His breath puffs against her in what sounds like a scoff. “An interesting way of describing yourself.” He licks a line from her throat to her collar bone, eliciting a shiver from her. 

“You’ve watched.” It doesn’t take a genius to know that he’s not necessarily a quick learner; he’s a bored god with nothing else to do.

“Yes.”

There’s something disturbingly hot about the idea of him being curious enough to watch her have sex. That heat travels through her body, settling low. She’s trying to control herself, trying to not let herself get excited too easily, too fast. The muscles in her thighs strain as she keeps them still, when she’d rather wrap them around his knee and push her hips closer. 

If he’s going to leave her, she’s not going to let herself look a mess. 

Her fingers are deft, the hands of a skilled thief as she unclasps his overcoat. He waits for her to slide it from his slim shoulders, down his arms. Its absence reveals a wiry frame as it drops to the floor. She leans back on her hands for a moment, taking him in. The pieces of him don’t add up to her. If he were just someone on the street, she wouldn’t look twice. He’s not her usual physical type. His personality leaves a lot to be desired. When he stares back at her with voided eyes, the chill that crawls down her spine is definitely one of trepidation. 

“It’s not like you to bite your tongue,” the Outsider says. “This is the time to say what you need, before it vanishes.”

“Is that a threat?” Emily grins at him, shifting again so that she can reach out. Her hand cups his face, tracing the lines there, the shape of his cheekbones, the thin line of his lips. 

“Emily.” There’s a heavy note to her name, but what shocks her is the fact that he uses it so casually. No clever titles, no Kaldwin. 

“I have questions,” she finally murmurs. 

There’s a ghost fo a smile that moves across his mouth, under her touch. “You can have one or the other.”

It’s not an unexpected choice. The way he says it, there’s a sinking feeling that settles heavy in her body that has nothing to do with the simmering desire beneath of it. This is _it_. 

She’s tired of figuring things out, wondering how the Outsider works. What he’s thinking. Understanding the world around her and what vague influence he has on it. 

Emily has always been better at action, anyway. 

Her shirt comes off in a smooth jerk. Her torso is bare, save for a few scars here and there. He watches her face instead of taking in her body. With a sigh, she wraps her fingers around his wrists until his hands are against her breasts. She should have expected his cool touch, but it still gets a small gasp out of her, a slight arch to her back. That’s an interesting side effect, and it finally gets him to look at her. _Really_ look at her. 

“I’m corrupting a god.”

His touch is firm but surprisingly gentle as he cups her breasts, thumbs brushing against hardened nipples. “At least this is by my own choice.”

 _Unlike with Delilah_ goes unsaid, but is heard all the same. 

Emily scoots back onto her mattress, and he follows faithfully until he’s completely on her bed. It’s easy, then, to straddle him. He was human once, but in his godhood, do all of his parts still work? She gets her answer when her hips grind down slowly to his. She’s worked up already, but the feel of him against her through layers slams through her hard. 

She leans forward until her mouth is against his ear. “You choose me?”

It’s possessive. She knows it is. 

“You bear my mark.”

“Many bear your mark.” She kisses the soft spot under his ear, nips at his jawline, even as the hand with his mark works its way under his white shirt. His skin is soft. She isn’t expecting that, not compared to the rough calluses of her own from years of swordplay and fighting. 

His arm moves to her bare waist, pressing her closer to him. His hips stutter up, and she moans with surprise. “Answers,” he reminds her. “Or this.”

Emily doesn’t care that she kisses him with harsh abandonment. What he gives her is an answer. His lips match her frenzy. Maybe he is a quick learner, quicker than she believed. She tugs at his shirt, and he lets her take it off of him. He’s pale. So pale, he practically glows against her hands. She takes a moment to absorb that juxtaposition, her hardworking hands splayed against his soft chest.

He's thin. She could break him so easily. He's a god, and she can break him. 

She moves closer and replaces her hands with her mouth instead. His skin is cool against her hot tongue. She traces the lines of his clavicle, kisses her way down the planes of his chest. Teeth tug at a nipple with curiosity, and when he makes a noise like that of a whimper, she lavishes it with her mouth to see if she can elicit another response from him. 

Her mouth has touched plenty of bodies in her time. Sex was an adventure, an out from the pressures of ruling. Soft and hard and tall and round. Her hands have made nobles and commoners alike come apart. 

She trails down his stomach, her hands at his hips. His fingers slide through the mess of her dark hair, and a shiver overtakes her. He tugs. She moans. 

He's watched before. He has definitely watched before. 

There are so many questions that lay heavy on her tongue now, so many things she could learn. He's in her hands, and in a moment, he'll be in her mouth. 

Answers, or this.

Her fingers dig into his hips, into the waistband of his eternal pants. She tugs them down over thin, pale thighs. His cock is free now, hard and at attention for her. Is this a dream, perhaps? It wouldn't be the first time she's imagined him in her bed. She thought those dreams had been involuntary, her brain confusing everything she'd been through and tossing it out as something she understood. 

They watch each other, her hooded gaze meeting his. Her breath is heavy. His chest quivers. Do dead men breathe? Do gods?

Her lips slide over the head of his cock, flicking the tip of her tongue over him. He leans back, hips trying to impale her. He pops out of her with a soft, wet sound. She licks a stripe across velvet skin, biting back the smile that threatens to overtake her. 

“Easy,” she tells him. “You should have more control.”

The Outsider's face is as impassive as ever, but she swears the black of his eyes is even darker. Lust and passion that threaten to overtake him, human emotions he has probably never had an actual opportunity to experience. It belongs to her. 

“You speak control, sweet empress,” he says. “But you undressed me.”

Emily does grin now, her fingers digging into his thighs. She wishes he could bruise. That her prints will be embedded into his skin. Instead of falling into a trap of banter, she takes him fully into her mouth, tongue wrapping around him as she begins to bob her head. She can't deny her base human responses. He moans when her teeth scrape skin, easy, gently. She wants him to feel her. 

She wants him to feel real. 

A surprising amount of feeling accompanies the way his none-too-soft moans dig inside of her with heated claws.

Her hand grips the base of his cock, squeezing gently. Her lips meet her fingers, wet. His body never warms, but his hands tighten in her hair, and he responds to her better than anyone has before. It takes nothing to make him come, even though she hadn’t even been sure he could do such a thing. She tries to not think about how it’s not warmth like life, because all of her understandings don’t match up with this moment, with them and what they are and what she’s done. The world doesn’t make sense with him in her mouth, in her hand, pliant and needy and vulnerable. He tastes of the Void.

Emily Kaldwin licks her lips as she sits up, watching him. Watching, staring, observing. She’s taken on his role now, hasn’t she, while he catches a breath he doesn’t actually need. She rubs her thighs together, trying to ease the fire that had caught between them. Fuck fuck fuck. The word tattoos itself against her thoughts. 

His fingers leave her hair and run across the heat of her cheeks, her soft pants hitting his skin. He cups her face. For a second, brief, painfully brief, he looks human. It makes her want to kiss him. Not with the harsh passion that throbs inside of her, but soft. Soft and sweet and sweeping over his face. 

Too many feelings. 

She grabs one of his hands from her face and drags it down her body to the apex of her thighs where heat has gathered, where her clit throbs. She has soaked through her shorts. She grinds against his hand, her fingers tight around his wrist. 

He leans in so suddenly, she thinks he'll disappear again. Slip through her fingers, her thighs. Back to the Void. Instead, he kisses her. It takes her breath away, but maybe that's because he moves his fingers against her core. 

“Yes,” she finds herself moaning against his lips. Her mouth fumbled against his, wet and sloppy. Her body trembles. Every inch of her is on fire, shaking.

He could get her off like this, through the fabric, with his uncertain mouth and inexperienced hands. 

“Do you want me to touch you?” His voice startles her. It's not a question. He says it with the cadence of a man who knows exactly what she wants. That's an infuriating development. 

She licks her lips and watches his gaze follow. “I can touch myself if you aren't up for it.”

He leans over her, leans into her, until her back is on the mattress. The Outsider kisses the hollow of her throat. She arches into him. 

“You are capable of many things.” His whisper is a kiss on her skin. 

His spindly, cold fingers find their way under the fabric of her shorts. There's no part that he touches that isn't already wet, fingers gliding through her lips with ease. She hisses, legs falling open. 

“Murder. Theft. Forgiveness.” With each thing she's capable of, he slides a finger inside of her and out again. 

She can give him a list if it means that his fingers will stay where she wants them to. 

“You are the pinnacle of what Dunwall has to offer to the world, Emily Kaldwin.”

Her nails dig into his shoulder, hips stuttering to meet the impractical pace of his hand. “Are you - complimenting me?”

His fingers drag over her clit, clumsy circles that spark electric. Stars burst. 

“People seem to like to talk.”

Her laugh is more like a moan. He's trying, and it's good. Sort of good. The way his hand works her clit, his fingers inside of her, he's trying. And she's desperate for more time. For him to be inside of her, for her to show him what being human is, the pinnacle of Dunwall's greatness. 

“Right there,” she breathes, keeping her eyes on him. 

He listens. This stupid, aggravating entity listens and digs little circles around her with his thumb. A scream catches in the back of her throat. She's tossed over the edge, worked up more from them than him. He could be good, perfect, her expertise building him up to be only hers. She rides his hand through the waves, edges of darkness creeping over her vision. Or maybe that's him. Maybe she's come so hard, the Void is here to embrace her. 

They're nose to nose. She inhales him, crisp. 

Her chest heaves. She quivers around his fingers. They twitch inside of her. 

“I am the world,” she says with a breathless laugh. 

“A modest declaration.”

“Modesty doesn't suit either of us.”

But she thinks they suit each other, impossibly, achingly. 


End file.
